


after thirty-eight hours

by museaway



Series: endverse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Established Relationship, First Aid, Injured Dean Winchester, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Castiel (Supernatural), Serious Injuries, Timestamp, implied impending major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21637000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: Following a supply run gone wrong, Sam and Castiel wait to see if Dean has become infected.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Endverse Castiel/Endverse Dean Winchester
Series: endverse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559575
Comments: 11
Kudos: 95
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	after thirty-eight hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [interstitial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstitial/gifts).



> Written for interstitial for Fandom Trumps Hate 2019. 
> 
> This is technically a timestamp to [this ain’t a love song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983620/chapters/8942311). If you haven’t read that fic, all you need to know is that Sam survived the endverse, Dean went missing for almost a year, and during that time, Sam and Cas got to be close friends.
> 
>  **Head's up:** I want to be really clear about this: No one dies in this fic. HOWEVER. It has an ambiguous ending that _could_ be interpreted as implied impending major character death. You could also see it as nothing at all. It's up to you.

It's still snowing when Castiel comes back from the chapel. The drifts are so high, the snow reaches over the top of his boots when he stumbles into one, spilling in cold. The camp is dark. The sun was still up when he left the cabin, so he didn’t bring a light. He crosses camp by memory, following what’s left of his footprints from an hour ago, gently rounded craters he can barely see. There’s no moon tonight. A skim of clouds obscure the stars, but there’s enough light for him to see his breath twisting in the air. The scarf around his neck amplifies his breathing and leaves the skin around his mouth damp. It’s always quiet here at night, but with the snow coming down, it’s silent.

He hadn't planned to go out today, but he hasn't missed a service since they completed the chapel, and Sam said he didn’t mind playing Dean’s jailer for an hour. Castiel caught Dean sneaking out of bed again this morning even though the doctor warned against walking on his leg before it heals. Dean made it down the front steps before Castiel realized he was out of bed. He carried him back even though Dean cursed him. Back inside, they could hear Sam laughing from the next cabin over.

Sam probably hasn't eaten dinner. Castiel only had a late lunch and Dean is always hungry, so Castiel stops by the comm to see what's left. They moved it into one of the new cabins at the end of the summer. It keeps the raccoons out. Someone made potato soup. Probably Chuck, which means he’s back in camp. Castiel fills a thermos. They've got bread back at the cabin if Dean didn't already eat it all. He's so bored lying around that he'd eat the camp clean out of food if they didn't ration.

The cabin lights are on. Dean is propped up in bed with his bandaged leg sticking out from under the blankets. Blood has seeped through the layers and has dried a copper brown. His right arm is immobilized by a sling. There are more bandages under his clothes that Castiel carefully wound around him this morning. Dean has torn off the ones on his face, leaving the injuries to the right side exposed. He looks to be asleep.

Sam is reading in the chair next to the fireplace. The dog is curled at his feet. He marks the place in his book and gets up, taking the thermos of soup from Castiel with an excited expression.

“I was worried there wouldn't be any left.”

“I figured you'd be hungry,” Castiel says. “There should be enough for all of us. If not, I can just eat bread.”

“Like hell you will. We’ve finally got it to where we can't see your ribs. You're _eating_.”

Castiel hides his smile in his scarf. He goes about shaking the snow out of his boots. If he sets them outside, they'll be buried if the wind changes direction, so he leaves them next to the door to dry beside Sam's.

“How is he?” Castiel says.

“He hasn’t woken up since I got here.”

“I’m glad. We’re low on pain medication.” Castiel feels guilty for wasting so much of it a few years ago, but there’s no point dwelling on the past, and Sam will only say he’s happy Castiel is better now. “While you’re here, will you help me change his bandages? It’ll be easier with someone to hold him up.”

“You should’ve called me over earlier this morning. I would’ve helped you then. You look awful. Did you get any sleep last night?”

“I stayed up watching in case…” Castiel sat up all night beside the bed with the shotgun loaded, in case Dean turned. The croat only got her hands on him. From the way she’d been moaning, it’s possible she got a taste and transmitted the virus to him, but it’s been thirty-six hours and Dean shows no symptoms.

Sam touches Castiel’s shoulder. “If you want me to stay with him for the night, you can crash in my cabin.”

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I didn’t realize he wasn’t behind me.”

“It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t realize either.”

“It's really coming down out there,” Sam says, turning his attention to the window. The snow is piling up on the ledge. If it continues at this rate, they won’t be able to see outside by morning. He gets out three bowls and distributes the soup, then rummages around for knife to cut the bread.

“The next drawer,” Castiel says.

“Surprised you don't know that. You're over here enough,” Dean mumbles. His voice is gravelly. Castiel pours him a glass of water.

“You’re awake,” Sam says.

Dean rubs his good hand across his eyes. “You’re loud.”

“Cas brought food.”

Dean holds the glass of water in his left hand. They removed his ring as a precaution after the attack in case his body started to swell. It’s strange to see his finger bare. Castiel wears Dean’s ring with his on the chain around his neck, something he had to start doing after he accidentally buried his own in the vegetable garden digging up radishes. Dean hasn't lost his. It’s taken a beating from everyday wear, but Castiel likes that. It's a testament that they are alive.

“I’m not hungry,” Dean says.

“Either way, you need to eat,” Sam says.

“Last time I checked, this was my cabin.”

“Don’t you share it with someone?”

Dean glances to Castiel, who is standing beside the bed waiting for him to finish the water. “That came out wrong.”

Castiel isn't offended. They agreed to share everything. If this cabin is Dean's, then it is Castiel's as well. And besides, he doesn't want to exist in spaces where Dean doesn't.

“I don’t need you acting like my mother,” Dean tells Sam.

Sam makes a face like he’s thinking hard about something. “Who had to carry you back inside after you sprained your ankle trying to slide into home last month?”

“Hey. We won, didn't we? Have you ever seen Chuck so happy?”

“He was happy about winning the toilet paper,” Castiel says.

“Which he only got because I—why am I arguing with the two of you? It's impossible once you team up. Do we have any of that wine left?”

There should be a bottle somewhere. They opened one before the attack. Castiel finds it in a cabinet and takes out the cork. It smells too strong. “It's starting to turn,” he says, waving a hand in front of his nose to clear the air.

“Better than nothing. Hand me the bottle.”

“You're still recovering,” Sam says. “You can have a glass. Cas, you want one?”

He can’t remember the last time he had a drink. Sam isn’t testing him, exactly, but Castiel knows that Sam worries he’ll start using again. “I'm going to make tea.”

Sam looks pleased. He smiles the way he did the first time Castiel took him out of this cabin for a walk while he was recovering. “Awesome. I'll join you.”

Dean looks up. “Is this what the two of you did while I was gone? Had tea parties?”

“We hadn't grown the mint yet,” Sam says.

He brings Dean a tray of food and resumes his seat by the fire. The dog lifts her head to be petted and sniffs at his bowl. Sam holds it out of reach and begins to eat.

Castiel appreciates the ritual of making tea: boiling the water, placing the leaves in the cup, pouring the boiling water over them with a steady hand. His don't shake anymore. They don't have any real tea. They ran out of the last bags years ago. What they do have is the side effect of the runaway mint plants that took over half of the herb garden before they got them under control. Castiel dried bunches of it and they steep it all winter. The remaining plants grow in pots along their porch, dormant this time of year, but as soon as the first rains come, they'll send out new leaves.

He prepares two cups and joins Sam beside the fire.

“We got through the inventory this afternoon,” Sam says. “We should be fine through the winter. I'm surprised that Walmart hadn't been completely emptied.”

“Is Chuck back?” Castiel says.

“Yeah, he got back a couple hours ago.”

“Is there any news of official relief?”

“There’s supposedly a government shelter outside of Topeka. The Mississippi pretty much stopped the spread, but they’re still not letting us cross. Everything west is still considered in quarantine. But there are regular supply routes. Fuel too. He said they’re encouraging everyone to head toward the bigger cities.”

“What about the virus?”

Sam shakes his head. “No cure. But the WHO says it’s post-peak. It didn’t spread beyond Mexico and Canada, and didn’t get very far in either.”

“Will you cross once they open the border?” Castiel says.

“Once it’s open, we won’t have to. People will be rushing out this way to rebuild.”

“Why?” Castiel says.

“Trying to make money,” Dean says from the bed. “It’ll be a mess, though, trying to decide who owns what. We’re probably better off staying.”

He coughs. It’s dry, probably irritation from lying down all day, but Sam and Castiel raise their heads. Sam’s expression is careful. They’re both thinking the same thing. The shotgun waits on the bureau.

Most people are symptomatic within a matter of hours after exposure to the croatoan virus, but there have been cases, especially lately, where an infected person is symptom-free for two or three days before the typical symptoms set in. If science has done any tests to back up the theory of a new strain, the news hasn't reached them out here. The camp's graveyard holds mistakes from believing every infected person would react the same way. One of them never even touched a croat. Sam thinks a strain has gone airborne, but any evidence burned up with the body.

Dean has been coughing since this morning. Colds aren't uncommon this time of the year, but Castiel jumps every time Dean clears his throat. He's seen enough people turn that he no longer trusts an itch.

"Look, why don't we shoot the fucking elephant instead of pretending it's not in the room," Dean says. "You both think I'm infected."

"No, we think it's a _possibility_ ," Sam says. "We're just being cautious."

"If you have to shoot me, shoot me. Don't you dare go feeling bad about it."

Castiel wants to tell him that he doesn't have the right to tell someone else how to feel, least of all his family, but Dean is the one who could be dying.

"And no big service either. Throw me in the ground or burn me."

Castiel goes still and closes his eyes at the idea. Sam puts a steadying hand on his arm.

"That's enough, Dean," he says.

Rather than argue, Dean goes back to eating. An appetite is a good sign. Taste for food is usually one of the first things to go, but he slurps like he's starving. Sam seems encouraged by that too. He pats Castiel's arm and pours more soup into their bowls even though Castiel had scarcely touched his.

He forces himself to eat. He'll need the strength if he's sitting up again tonight. The soup lacks its usual flavor. Not enough salt, maybe. Like everything else, it's rationed. If the flavor is off, Sam doesn't seem to notice. He downs his second bowl and gnaws on the bread heel.

Once Sam’s satisfied Castiel has eaten enough, they put their bowls in the wash bin—Castiel will carry them to the mess hall in the morning—and get out the first-aid kit. There hasn't been much use for it lately. Things have been calm. But every supply run carries risk, and the camp can't run without supplies. They've given up niceties like coffee, but things like clothing, medication...there’s no way to manufacture those with their current setup. That would mean growing cotton, making fabric, training people to sew it. That requires equipment they don't have. They make what they can from sheets, tablecloths, and drapery they've stockpiled, but those mean supply runs too.

And Dean is still as reckless as he was when they founded the camp. He never thinks about himself. In a way, that means he doesn't think of Castiel in those moments either, but Castiel knows it's the camp’s survival that matters, not either one of them. Dean doesn't think twice about being the one left behind. He no longer asks it of anyone else. Castiel rubs at a headache that is forming in his right temple. The cold always does this to him. He never felt cold when he was an angel. Human bodies are so delicate.

They spread the medical kit on the bed. Sam gets out the scissors and gauze while Castiel opens the bottle of disinfectant. He’s seen and treated hundreds of wounds, but can't remember an injury scaring him as much as this one. As they lift up Dean’s shirt, Castiel notices that Dean's teeth are clenched. He doesn't make a sound, but beads of sweat gather at his hairline and, one by one, drip down the side of his face. The pain must be incredible, but Dean is trying his hardest to keep that from them. Pain is a good sign. Croats lose it when they lose their humanity. Sam thinks it might have to do with connections in the brain, something about the way the virus interferes with neurons. They lose their ability to feel along with their sense of self. As long as Dean is in pain, he's not turning.

Sam uses the scissors to cut the soiled gauze away, apologizing when he has to tug in the places where it has stuck to Dean's skin. The wound looks redder than it did yesterday, the way wounds always look worse the second day. But although the color is more severe, the swelling doesn't appear to have gotten any worse throughout the day. Castiel pours disinfectant onto a clean piece of cloth and uses a pair of forceps to clean the wounds. Dean only takes a deep breath, but it's enough to signal has discomfort. Castiel blows on the injuries, the way he has seen parents blow on their children's injuries. Dean shoots him a look of disbelief.

“Where the hell did you learn that trick?”

“Is it helping?” Castiel says.

Dean doesn't answer. Castiel continues to apply the antiseptic, feeling dizzier with each inch he covers, but he refuses the hand Sam puts out in a silent offering to take over. He promised he would take care of Dean for life. God might have abandoned them, but Castiel is faithful to his vows.

He finds what looks like an infected area to Dean’s waistline. The injuries here are deeper, likely caused by fingernails as the croat tried to thrash and grab at him. It must have gotten under his clothing, otherwise Dean's getup should have protected him. He was on the ground when they found him.

The wound is oozing. It’s ugly, but at least Dean's body is fighting back. Castiel catches Sam's eye is to make sure he notices. Sam nods once, picking up one of the new rolls of bandages.

“How many days are you going to make me play _Mummy Returns_?” Dean says.

“It'll hurt a lot worse if you're glued to the sheets in the morning,” Sam says.

“Whatever. Just wrap me up.”

Castiel dabs the infected area again, and Sam covers it with a bandage instead of the gauze. It’ll be easier to check that way. Castiel nods that he understands Sam's choice. Dean notices the silent communication between them and frowns, although he doesn't ask about it. Next, they unwrap his leg. Unlike his side, Dean has a perfect view of his own injuries there. Most are superficial scratches he got through his jeans, but his ankle is swollen from the sprain; and in the few places where his pants tore, he has deeper injuries similar to those on his side. Sam and Castiel repeat the procedure: disinfect, bandage. Sam rewraps Dean's ankle tightly in a fabric bandage to keep it immobile.

“What's the verdict?” Dean says.

Castiel takes a cloth and mops Dean’s forehead. “You'll be fine in a few more days.”

“If you stay in bed,” Sam says.

Dean huffs. “I'd like to see you stay in bed for a week.”

“Try months,” Sam says lightly.

Dean looks to Castiel.

“Months,” Castiel says.

They don't really talk about the time when Dean left them. It's been an unspoken rule since he came back. He knows some, but they really haven't told him about the extent of Sam's injuries, or what Castiel endured taking care of him. The way that the two of them supported each other the winter they thought Dean was dead. Castiel wouldn't trade those days with Sam for anything in the world, even though he wishes he could forget so much about that time. Nursing Sam back to health was the one good thing left. It gave him a reason to wake up in the morning when he didn't want to wake up at all.

He doesn't know how to explain that to Dean in a way that he’ll understand. Sometimes Castiel worries he's jealous of his own brother. So he and Sam keep that time to themselves, letting Dean believe they simply grew close in his absence. Now, though, he's looking at the two of them with a new expression.

“Months,” he says with the same sort of disbelief that comes with learning about a death.

“So, I know all about staying in bed,” Sam says. “It won't kill you.”

He closes the first aid kit and puts it back in the cabinet, then puts the shotgun where it belongs.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Dean says.

“It's been thirty-eight hours,” Sam says. “Let's all get some sleep.”

“You should stay here for the night,” Castiel says. “Your cabin must be freezing.”

Sam grins and scratches the dog between the ears. “We'll be warm enough. Do you guys need anything?”

“We're okay.”

“Alright. I'll see you tomorrow. Night, Dean.”

“Night.”

Sam pats Castiel’s shoulder and says in his ear, “Don't let him make you crazy.”

“I can _hear_ you,” Dean says.

“Good,” Sam says and opens the door. “Come on, girl.”

The dog follows him out into the snow. Castiel shuts the door and watches out the window until Sam reaches his own cabin and waves. He draws the curtains to choke off the draft and undresses, crawling into bed with Dean.

“What are you reading?” Castiel says, leaning his head against the wall.

“Something out of that stack Sam left here. It was better than staring at the ceiling.”

“How's your ankle?”

“Hurts. How long are you going to keep me under house arrest?”

“We want you to heal properly.”

Castiel frowns thinking of how he could have healed Dean himself once, before his powers drained away.

Dean taps him underneath his chin. “Don't go dwelling on that,” he says.

“Dwell on what?”

Dean gives him a look to say he knows that Castiel is feigning innocence. “How many years have we known each other?”

“I don't remember,” Castiel says. “I don't remember what year it is.”

“Doesn't really matter so much anymore.” Sighing, Dean casts the book aside. “Guess we're not messing around like this.”

“You shouldn't move. And I haven't slept.”

“I know a way to help you sleep real good.”

“You're in no position to perform oral sex, and I'm not riding you like this.”

“My other side’s not hurt. We can do it real slow.”

“We can do it tomorrow.”

“I'm in pain,” Dean says, giving Castiel the same wounded look that Sam's dog uses sometimes. It's not often that Dean behaves like this. It’s the sort of attention he would have paid Castiel in the beginning, before they changed as the world around them did. It hurts to think of how different Dean has become, but the Dean who came here from the past wouldn't have survived this place. The hardening is necessary.

He’ll take this momentary offering of softness. It's been a while since they kissed for the sake of it. It's usually a prelude to something. Dean kisses him the way he did the first winter in the camp. They still had hope of rescue back then. It was a survival game. Nobody believed that the virus would sweep the country the way it did and irreparably change the way it functioned. Even after that first year, no one believed they would wait two, three, who knows how many before they could leave this place.

Dean's mouth is dry.

Castiel sheds his clothes. He lies down on his side with his back curved toward Dean. Behind him he hears the sound of a zipper and fabric being pushed across skin. A moment later, Dean's skin touches his. He's hard. He slips himself between Castiel's thighs.

The places where they touch are hot compared to the air. From now until morning, the fire will burn itself out. When they wake, the room will be frigid. Frost will cling to the glass, and Castiel will skitter naked to the fireplace to relight it before Dean wakes up. For now, he admires the breathtaking contrast. Dean moans against the back of his neck, sinking his teeth into Castiel's skin. He licks the places that he bites afterward. With both arms, he holds Castiel to his chest, murmuring his name. Dean cannot use his right side, so Castiel uses his own hand to touch himself.

“You feel good,” Dean whispers.

He can't thrust as hard as he usually does. It keeps the pace slow, the way they used to make love to each other. Castiel tries to turn his face back over his right shoulder so he can reach Dean's mouth, the angle cramping his neck, but it doesn’t hurt. They press their lips together and hold, as though Castiel can absorb Dean's pain if they stay connected long enough. Humans pretend a kiss can heal. Castiel is willing to pretend for a night.

“Wait,” he says and turns around, slipping an arm beneath Dean's head and putting the other between them. He kisses Dean while he touches them together. Dean places a hand on top of Castiel’s and they slowly move. He slides his tongue along Castiel's in time with the movement of their hands.

When Castiel hears the change in Dean's breathing that signifies his approaching climax, he removes his hands, crouching between Dean's legs to finish him with his mouth. Groaning, Dean strokes Castiel’s head, curling his fingers into his hair as the wave approaches, and as it hits, he arches his back and gasps.

“There,” Castiel says, licking his lips. Dean will sleep soundly now. He’s breathing hard against the pillow.

“What...about you?” Dean says.

“I’ll do it myself.”

Dean scowls and turns onto his back, his head propped up on two pillows. He pats his chest once. Carefully, so as not to put any weight on Dean's injuries, Castiel hovers over him the way he knows Dean wants. This position always makes him feel uncomfortable, but Dean's hands settle on his hips. He takes Castiel in his mouth. Castiel moves that way Dean likes, thrusting shallowly between his lips. It's not long before he climaxes, letting his head fall back. Dean takes all of it.

“Ten years ago, I’d be hard again,” he says, gripping Castiel’s gluteal muscles.

“We’re not that young anymore,” Castiel says wistfully.

“Soon as I’m feeling better.”

Castiel kisses him and gets up for a towel, dipping it into the wash basin to clean his body. He climbs naked back into the bed. There’s nothing like the feeling of Dean's skin against his to make him feel alive.

“Thanks,” Dean says, settling against his back. A few minutes later, his breathing grows deep as he drifts off.

Even through closed eyes, Castiel can still see the fire flickering. His mind starts to wander. If the government is really going to send supplies out this way, they won't have to think about leaving this place unless they’re forced off of the land. Dean won’t have to risk his life making sure the camp has what it needs anymore, and Sam can teach in a real school, not only the one they have set up.

Castiel coughs, the deep cough of a cold settling in his lungs. If he has to stay in bed tomorrow, Sam will bring them food, and Dean will be with him. They haven’t spent a whole day awake together in a while. A backwards miracle. He coughs again.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Dean mumbles.

“I'm fine; it doesn’t hurt” Castiel says, smiling. “Go back to sleep. It's only the cold.”

**Author's Note:**

> As much as the idea of living through an epidemic scares me, I have a thing for zombies. Something about humans losing their humanity is deeply terrifying. It didn’t feel right to end this fic on a high note, so I thought it was best if you could choose your own ending.
> 
> Interstitial's original prompt was for two of TFW to take care of the third, who is seriously injured. We talked about hell trauma or endverse and settled on a timestamp. One of the things I enjoyed most writing the original fic was the world building: thinking about what it must be like not to be able to run out for eggs, or order in some new pants from Old Navy. Living under a constant threat must really change you as a person. I’ve been surprised by the reaction to that story over the years. I wrote it at a very dark point in my life, and I’ve met wonderful people because of it — even people who normally wouldn’t read this ship. 
> 
> Thank you to interstitial for giving me a reason to return to this universe, to wetsammy for the beta, and to the SPN fandom for being my home for the past several years. ♥ 
> 
> If you're on Twitter, [please come say hi](https://twitter.com/museawayfic).


End file.
